


infante défunte

by artemis_sleeps



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A bit sad, Classical Music, Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Gen, Hannibal plays the flute, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28839012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemis_sleeps/pseuds/artemis_sleeps
Summary: infante défunte, or flutes, and other things Hannibal pursues to distract himself from the hot man sleeping in his cottage.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	infante défunte

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pavane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11691381) by [wyntre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre). 



> this is a shamelessly self-indulgent ficlet about Hannibal playing the flute, written by a classically trained flutist. big thanks to my hannibal groupchat for listening to me babble about writing this, and to Atlas for the summary.
> 
> Here's my favourite flute arrangement of the [Pavane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7C9g-wROUN0), played by Magali Mosnier. I'd recommend listening to it to get a feel for what Hannibal is playing.

It began with a pawn shop in Argentina. Hannibal Lecter was aching and restless and he couldn’t bear to spend any more time in a stifling house with a sleeping Will Graham. The longer Hannibal spent in the house with Will the more he longed to scream. He felt as though two bodies were too big for the small cottage and he swore he could hear Will’s heart beat too loudly from the other room. They were both awake and both alive after their tumble into the sea, but Will spent most of his time asleep. He didn’t need to anymore, his wounds had healed enough and he was more mobile than Hannibal. He just chose to waste his days away sleeping in the guest bedroom down the hall. Hannibal assumed it was a purposeful way for Will to avoid him. So Hannibal went on long walks through the streets of Rosario. He went to open air markets while the season was nice and tipped the buskers on the street. He identified potential targets if Will ever wanted to indulge himself again. But mainly, Hannibal walked. 

He left the claustrophobic little cottage and began walking around eight in the morning. It was noon, now. His previously-broken legs ached and he realized that he hadn’t eaten that day. It was unlike him to skip meals. He must’ve forgotten to eat in his rush to leave that morning, after waking and hearing Will’s sleeping breaths from across the cottage. He was in the heart of the city by now, idly wandering and appreciating the art-nouveau architecture. He longed to show Will his discoveries. 

Hannibal sat at a table outside a small café, sipping his maté. He endeavoured to eat like a local wherever he went and the tea was pleasant and refreshing. He idly thought that Will might enjoy it. It had enough caffeine it might even help his migraines. He caught himself soon enough. His pastry was filled with quince paste and was tart and he must have grimaced, because he noticed a waiter from the café looking at him and chuckling. A dinner party soon, perhaps. Hannibal let his focus stray for a moment, staring out at the crowds on the sidewalks, meandering in and out of stores. He spared a glance back at the rude waiter and finished off his light breakfast. Across the street he noticed an English-language bookstore, obviously catered to tourists but warm and inviting nonetheless. He needed more to read, having grown weary of the endless Garcia Marquez and Borges titles in the small cottage. He imagined that Will might appreciate something more to do; maybe Hannibal would start with his reading and introduce him to the classics that had defined him as a young man. He cut the thought off abruptly and stepped into the street. 

There was nothing in the bookstore that caught Hannibal’s keen eye. The owner he had taken a business card from assured him that he should check back once they’ve received more used books. The bookshop, rather than a lazy cat, had a companionable dog under the counter. Hannibal gave the elderly basset hound’s ear a small scratch and thought about Will again. The dog was the first thing to catch Hannibal’s eye. The next was a flash of silver in the window of the pawn shop next door. A scuffed flute was propped up on an open felt-lined instrument case. He opened the door of the pawn shop and went inside.

“How much for the flute?” he asked the clerk in lightly-accented Spanish.

“6000 pesos, Señor” the clerk replied curtly. At least they had the modicum of decency to address him politely, Hannibal thought.

“Would you mind taking it out of the window so I can have a look at it please?” Hannibal asked. The shop clerk didn’t answer and walked over to the window, crudely grabbing the instrument. Hannibal flinched. The old flute was placed in front of him on the glass counter above a display of engraved wedding rings. Stolen, Hannibal assumed. He thought about Will again. 

“Here you are, Señor” snapped him out of his reverie. Hannibal picked up the flute. He placed his fingers over the keys in a way he hadn’t since he was a boy. Silently he played a major scale without raising the instrument to his lips. He turned the instrument over in his hands, examining it from the crown to the foot. The flute was well-loved, the silver varnish scuffed and worn. It was an instrument a child would’ve learned on. The holes in the keys had thick silicone plugs for little fingers and there was a colourful sticker where the left thumb was to be placed. 

“I’ll take it,” he said. He began taking it apart with more care than the clerk had shown. Placing the component pieces back in the plastic case, he looked up at the clerk.

“It’s a little damaged isn’t it, Señor?” the young person said, “say 5000 pesos, instead?” The clerk smiled. Hannibal allowed a corner of his mouth to quirk up.

“That’s very kind of you. 5000 pesos it is” he said, handing over too-crisp banknotes. He had the distressing thought that the clerk might be afraid of him, his strange accent, and overdressed suit, or that they might pity him. He packed up the flute and left before they could give him change or offer a bag. 

* * *

Will Graham woke in the late afternoon to the sound of music in the other room. It was too loud to be a recording but quiet enough that it seemed like someone was trying to not wake him. It was Hannibal, then. He had no clue that Hannibal played the-- flute, oboe? It was playing low enough that it had the warm, brassy tone of an oboe. He sat up as the notes climbed higher and higher; it was a flute. A flute with a clear, ringing quality to it. He dropped his head back onto his pillow and listened. He’d known Hannibal was a musician when he saw his harpsichord in Baltimore, but he’d never known him to play the flute. It was the kind of skill Hannibal would surely have displayed proudly, probably with a ridiculously expensive platinum flute. He had the idle thought that it might go back further, before Baltimore. Maybe it was in his Florentine days, or maybe he attended the  _ Conservatoire _ while living in Paris with his uncle. Will wondered if Hannibal knew just how much he’d divulged when hopped up on heavy pain medication on their tiny, rocking boat. Will had coaxed it out of him after one too many nights spent listening to Hannibal whisper  _ “Mischa”  _ in his sleep. The flute kept playing. 

Hannibal was standing in front of their living room window when Will wandered in. Almost haloed by the sunlight at his back. He had a rough-looking silver flute raised to his mouth and cloth draped over his other shoulder. He looked at home playing it; his eyes were closed and his fingers moved fluidly over the clunky keys. He snapped his eyes open at the first touch of Will’s bare feet to the hardwood floor. He did not stop playing. His eyes caught Will’s, he took a deep breath and the instrument sang. If he were a romantic like Hannibal, Will might’ve said that he was “mesmerized” by the other man’s playing. He did watch intently, though, as Hannibal’s long fingers pressed key after key in specific combinations. Will watched Hannibal’s lips purse and relax; he watched as he darted his tongue out to tap his teeth to create a percussive _ tut!  _ He moved slowly up scales like climbing a ladder, only to rush into rolling fall down. Will watched until he played a sour note and Hannibal looked away. He lowered the flute from his lips and Will struggled to catch his eyes again.

“The corners of your eyes twitch when you play a high note, you know” he added, after a long while.

“Do they?” Hannibal looked back up with a small grin. 

“I never thought to put you in front of a flute to learn all your tells” Will chuckled. Hannibal hummed at that and looked away once again. Uncharacteristically evasive. The flute playing was a childhood hobby, then. Will walked up to Hannibal and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“I didn’t know that you played,” said Will, motioning to the instrument.

“I scarcely knew myself,” Hannibal whispered back.

“It’s beautiful,” Will said. He wanted to bring a hand up to Hannibal’s cheek. He didn’t. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal answered. The two men stood quietly for a while. 

“Will you play me what you were playing before,” Will asked, “before you noticed me and started showing off?” Hannibal ventured a small smile.

“Yes.”

Hannibal played. It started with the low, brassy oboe notes from before. It was unutterably slow, mournful even. Still beautiful. When Hannibal ventured up high again, reprising the melody from before but clear & bell-like, his eyes twitched. Will caught him with a smile behind the silver mouthpiece. He kept the long notes consistent and rich, moving effortlessly between registers with slow steps. He ventured back down to the melody from the beginning, lower again and quieter this time. The piece ended on a rich, warm low note. Hannibal lowered the flute and looked at Will. Will realized he was waiting for a reaction.

“That was nice, Hannibal,” he said.

“Just nice?” Hannibal grinned.

“Maybe I’ll venture as far as ‘good’ for you,” Will said wryly.

“How kind.”

“What song was that?” Will asked after some time.

“Maurice Ravel’s  _ ‘Pavane pour une infante défunte,’ _ ” he said, “the Pavane for a Dead Princess.”

“It reminds you of Mischa,” Will added quietly. Hannibal didn’t answer. Will took a leap and sturdily hugged the older man. Will felt the breath-warm flute touch the side of his thigh as Hannibal relaxed into the embrace. Still too much remained unsaid, but both men were content in simply taking a breath together. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I have so many more thoughts about music & Hannibal. Check them out at my tumblr [@clarice-darling](https://clarice-darling.tumblr.com/)
> 
> also as of January 2021 this was submitted to a short story contest (with names changed and sapphicized). hello editors, awards panel, if you find this, no you didn't <3


End file.
